


The End As We Know It Now

by MissMoustachio



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bucky is called 'Vanya', Depression, Gen, Includes untranslated Russian, Lost Love, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rapid Aging, Sam Wilson is Captain America, Steve takes care of Bucky, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, graphic description of illness, terminal illness, use of flower language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoustachio/pseuds/MissMoustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky returns after nine months of being missing, Steve can't wait to get his best friend back. But, when Bucky suddenly begins aging at a rapid rate, Steve has to come to terms with the knowledge that Bucky isn't staying long...</p><p>Title taken from "You Know and I Know and Thee Know" by Charles Bukowski.<br/>Post CATWS</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End As We Know It Now

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights go to Marvel. I do not own any of the canon characters and am in no way affiliated with Marvel, Disney, Stan Lee, etc. This fiction has been written purely through request and I have no intention of publishing, selling or doing anything with this story aside from leaving it here for fans to read. Should I be asked to take this fic down, I will do so immediately. 
> 
> I should stress that this fic is not a happy one. It deals with difficult subjects, all of which are mentioned in the tags. If anyone wants a specific trigger tagged, I will do so. 
> 
> You can read into the relationship between Bucky and Steve in this fic however you want. I personally ship them, yet I suppose there is a potential for my interpretation of them to be platonic. It's all down to personal perspective, anyway.
> 
> I would like to emphasise that I wrote this for fans only. That means I am respectfully asking that this is not shared outside of fandom circles and isn't shown to the actors, creators etc. It's also the reason why I am only making this available to members of AO3. Sorry for any inconvenience.
> 
> Thank you to all my online friends who have encouraged and motivated me to write this monstrosity (I started it nearly five months ago and delayed publishing it for at least two months!). Your support is what made me write this and I hope it was worth the wait.

The knock on the door comes at three in the morning, on a particularly cold winter morning. The wind was especially gruesome, tearing through the arthritic branches of skeletal trees, scratching at the pane of Steve's window.

He had requested a room with a view of the city, of the bustling streets and the beautiful secrets that lingered in its nooks and crannies. Tony joked that it was so he could keep his eye out for youngsters walking on his lawn, but the reality was perhaps more pathetic.

Steve was looking for Bucky.

 

*

 

After he woke up on the dirty embankment beside the churning river, Steve looked everywhere for the man who was now The Winter Soldier. But, as the rumours proclaimed, he was a ghost. For the third time, Bucky had left Steve with no promise of coming back.

Just as he had done nearly a century before, Steve had sat up in a bar drinking alcohol and mourning the loss of his ability to get drunk. With every shot he could see the deadness in Bucky's eyes, the downturn of his mouth as he threw yet another punch, gave Steve yet another black eye that he wholeheartedly deserved. Because he had let Bucky down for the hundredth time.

Peggy wasn't the one to find him this time. No, she was rotting in a nursing home, losing her mind and losing her identity. He had the guilt of that on his conscience too; he always regretted making her listen as he crashed the plane into the ice.

All he could do was hurt people.

Natasha sat primly beside him, her scarlet hair pulled back into a pony tail and her hand cradling her elbow.

“Mind sharing some of that?” she had asked, gesturing to the Jack Daniels that sat before him, untouched. He nodded and she downed it in one, slamming the glass back down with an unprecedented ferocity. “Are you alright?”

“I lost him,” Steve deadpanned. “Again.”

Natasha nodded, her hand reaching out to card through Steve's hair. He leant into her touch, breathing her in; he needed the comfort, the reassurance. He loves her so much, this little sister he never had.

“I know Vanya. He'll come back.”

The name is so wrong, the Russian for 'Ivan' falling from her mouth like acid to fizzle and die on the floor. Steve is acutely aware that she, too, had loved Bucky; she just had him under different circumstances. Vanya was another way to strip Bucky of his identity, of his roots; Nat had served as another barrier.

Because Vanya loved his women like fine vodka, strong and potent.

Vanya didn't care for a scrawny blond kid who was more akin to ginger beer than anything of substance.

“But we're talking about Bucky,” he replied, the words sounding harsher than intended.

If she was hurt, she didn't show it.

“You two are connected, Steve,” she said. “Even back in Russia, he preferred it when my hair was dyed blonde. He liked it when I argued back. Liked it when he could protect me.” She laughed mirthlessly, shaking her head. “I could never compete with you.”

Steve licked his lips and kissed her temple.

“Do you really think he'll be back?”  
“Either you find him or he finds you. Give him time.”

 

*

 

And so, for nearly nine months, Steve has been doing just that.

 

*

Every night, from eight to midnight, he sits up on his window seat, watching and waiting in the hopes that one day a man with a metal arm and a broken heart might drag his feet along the snowy streets and rap on the door.

And then, one unremarkable night, that very thing happens.

Midnight has been and gone and Steve is brushing his teeth, trying not to overthink the disappointment in the base of his stomach, when his bedroom light begins to pulse red; a signal from JARVIS.

“JARVIS? What's wrong?” he asks, throwing the toothbrush into the basin and going to grab his shield.

“Nothing is the matter, Steven,” the voice replies. “My surveillance cameras have picked up an unidentified person on the doorstep that fits the description of James Buchanan Barnes.

“ _What?”_

Steve jumps up and runs to the window, craning his head to try and see the front door. However, the streets are too dark and the snow is too thick.

“Show me!” he commands and the plasma screen television at the base of his bed flashes up with CCTV footage.

A man is most definitely stood by the door, baseball cap pulled low over his face and coat collar popped. It's almost impossible to see the stranger's face – they must either be ex-military or incredibly paranoid to be able to identify and avoid cameras, especially Stark's – but the light catches a glimmer of metal on their left hand.

Or rather, the entire hand is metal.

“Send him up!” Steve orders, his heart palpitating and his gut lurching as he runs about the room like a headless chicken.

“Certainly, sir.”

Steve runs his hand through his hair, taking deep breaths in through his nose and out of his mouth. He had suffered from horrendous panic attacks back in the Brooklyn days and, whilst they are less frequent now, they're far more severe, and Steve finds himself rushing to the toilet and vomiting.

When he stands up, his mouth rancid with Euthymol toothpaste and stomach acid, Bucky is already stood in the doorway.

He looks awful. His glazed eyes are lined with purple bruises, created from the fists of insomnia. His skin is pallid, tinged blue from the cold, and his face is half-covered in a scraggly beard that's going white at the tips. He runs his tongue over his chapped lips, his hands fisted at his side. Steve can't help but stare and, once upon a time, Bucky might have dared him to take a picture. But now, he just watches him right back.

“Bucky?” Steve eventually says, his voice tentative for fear of triggering him in some way.

The brunet blinks and his eyes soften somewhat. He nods slowly.

“Steve,” he replies, and his voice is rough from whiskey, cigarettes, and screaming.

And all Steve wants is to reach out, to hug him, to have him close and make him feel safe. But he doesn't. Instead, he nods in return and wraps his arms round his own body.

“I'm glad you're back.”

Bucky makes a gurgling noise akin to a laugh before his eyelids flutter. Without a word or a sign, he collapses to the floor.

 

*

 

“ _C'mon Stevie, it's not that bad!”_

_Steve peers over the edge of the slide, stood at the tippy-top as his heart hammers in his chest cavity. Bucky's at the bottom, wrapped in a fraying scarf and a tattered coat. The gold and copper leaves crunch under Bucky's feet, which he's stamping in an attempt to keep them warm._

“ _I don't wanna come down!” he calls back, shaking his head vigorously. He's no wimp – the bruises and bloodied noses from fights with the big boys is evidence enough – but, at ten years old, he's perfectly entitled to his moments of irrational fear._

“ _It ain't that high!” Bucky protests, but he's wrong; it's Mount Everest made of metal and wood._

“ _I'm just gonna go down the stairs.”_

“ _But that's no fun!”_

“ _I don't wanna!”_

_Steve folds his arms and juts his jaw out, an action he'd learned from Bucky who sincerely regretted teaching him the stance. The brunet glares up at him before rolling his eyes and scrambling up the steps. Steve watches in confusion as Bucky joins his side._

“ _What're you doin' up here?”_

“ _You don't wanna go down on your own,” Bucky replies mildly. “So I'm going down with ya!”_

“ _You don't have'ta!”_

_The thirteen year old looks at him, unimpressed._

“ _Do too. Otherwise you'll be stuck up here forever and I'll have to tell your Ma you died in the play-park!”_

_Steve swallows and looks away, his nose running from the cold; he doesn't want to upset his Ma. He sighs dramatically and nods._

“ _Fine.”_

_Bucky grins and sits at the top of the steel tongue, sticking his legs out and patting his thighs, signalling for Steve to sit. The blond does so and it's a little awkward – he elbows Bucky in the nose and his ass cheeks are so sharp he practically punctures the Barnes boy's legs – but they manage to get comfortable and Bucky wraps his hands around Steve's waist._

“ _You ready?”_

_Steve shakes his head and Bucky squeezes him reassuringly._

“ _Don't worry Stevie, I'm right here.”  
_

_“What if you fall off the side?” Steve whispers. “What if you drop me?”_

“ _I ain't gonna fall, Steve. And I won't ever let you go.”_  

“ _Promise?”_

“ _Promise.”_

_Steve looks over his shoulder at the brunet before nodding. They push forward and go down the slight drop, crashing to the mulch below._

_Steve loves it so much he climbs right back up the steps. Each time he goes down, Bucky follows._

 

*

 

Bucky's been in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intensive care unit for nearly two weeks. He fades in and out of reality, mumbling in his sleep about blood and Brooklyn and brotherhood and bombs. Hooked up to an IV drip with a heart-rate monitor beeping rhythmically beside him, he's never looked so frail. 

Steve sits in the corner, immobile. No one's managed to coerce him to move from the armchair, not even Sam or Natasha.

Today's the day Bucky's test results are meant to come back. They've screened him for everything. When Bruce relays the information he'd pried from the doctors on the various possible conditions the brunet could have, Steve scoffs.

“Bucky was injected with the same serum as me,” he replies. “It may not have been as advanced, but it was strong enough. He still looks the same.”

“Well, he was cryogenically frozen,” Banner replies. “It's not a solid science, even now with all the technology we have available. Tony and I have dabbled in it ourselves.”

Just then, a middle aged woman with thinning hair and a kind face enters, her white coat just a little too large for her. Steve stands, both as a sign of respect and an act of urgency.

“Hello, I'm Doctor Patel,” she says, holding her hand out for Steve to take.

“Steve Rogers,” he replies, shaking it. “Is he alright?”

“James,” she says, and for some reason it irks Steve. “I do have his test results here.”

“Do you want me to leave the room?” Bruce asks and Steve shakes his head. He needs the moral support and Banner, for all his oddities and eccentricities, is a good man at heart.

“There's nothing wrong with your friend in terms of illness or cell damage,” she says, looking down at her clipboard, and Steve releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in.

“That's great news!”

“Well, it's not,” the doctor replies shortly. “The Infinity Formula that he was injected with... our research tells us that it's different to the one that's in you.”

“I could have told you that,” Steve snaps and Bruce shoots him an admonishing look. Doctor Patel doesn't seem fazed and nods.

“The original serum James was injected with contained a chemical called 'Sivapramalayse'. It acts almost as a reverse catalyst, slowing the aging process so that the subject in question can be young and healthy for longer. It's present in you, too, although yours is of a slightly different variety.”

“I thought that it was something to do with being frozen?” Steve frowns.

“Neither of you would have survived without the serum,” Doctor Patel says. “But the problem lies in your friend's arm.”

“What?”

“The people who developed the technology incorporated a pump of sorts into James' arm. If triggered, it releases a toxin that counters the Sivapramalayse and renders it useless.”

“And that means?”

“The effects of the Sivapramalayse will be eliminated instantly. It seems when James went rogue, his higher ups must have triggered the pump and released the toxin. So... James is aging at a rapid rate.”

“You mean-”

“His physiology is currently one of a forty year old man's, rather than a male in his twenties. In another two weeks, he will be in his sixties. Another two weeks, his eighties. Another two weeks...”

She stops and looks away. Steve's hands curl into fists.

“What?” he grinds out.

“He'll be dead.”

Steve grits his teeth and nods once, his face tight and pinched. The doctor opens her mouth to say something when he spins round and punches the wall, his fist smashing through the plaster and leaving a gaping hole in its wake.

“ _Motherfucker_!” he shouts in an uncharacteristic burst of rage. Bruce looks to the doctor, who seems slightly alarmed.

“Surely we can inject him with a new dose of Sivapramalayse?”

“The only active sample is in Steve's bloodstream and there's no safe way to extract it.”

“I don't care about 'safe'!” Steve hollers, his knuckles split and bleeding. “You can cripple me for all I care, just _help him_!”

“We _can't_ ,” Doctor Patel replies firmly.

“It's your _job_!”

“Steve,” Bruce frowns.

“We're under direct orders from Director Fury,” she says. “We cannot put you at risk.”

“But Bucky can die?!”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bruce hisses.

“No, I'm not having this! It's not Fury's decision, it's mine!”

“We have no way of knowing how James' body would react to your particular stream of Sivapramalayse. As we said, his serum is different to yours, an-”

“What a crock!”

“Steve.”

It's not Bruce who says it this time.

 

All three of them turn to the bed. Bucky is looking at them, his eyes hooded and fuzzy. Steve immediately flocks to his bed and crouches down by his side, taking his flesh hand in his own.

“I'm here Buck, I'm here.”

“What's... got your panties in a twist?” he croaks and it's so quintessentially Bucky that Steve feels like he might sob.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Steve,” Bucky frowns. “I-I know when you're lying. Just... tell me.”

Steve takes a deep breath and bites his lip, shaking his head before biting the bullet.

“You're dying, Buck,” he says, his voice quivering. “You're terminal.”

 

*

 

 _Steve has never looked good in black_  

_His skin is too pale, his hair is too fair. It looks like a little boy trying to dress up like his father._

_Except his father is dead. And now, so's his mother._

_Bucky watches from the small crowd that's gathered in the graveyard, the mahogany coffin being prepped to be lowered into the ground. Steve is stood up front, in an oversized suit, his eyes dry and his mouth set into a grim line._

_  
“Thank you all for coming,” he says. “Ur... my Mom was a great woman, made evident by how many of you are here today. I'm... afraid I don't have much to say. Not because there isn't a million and one things I can say in praise of my Mother, because I could give you a million and two. But I-I don't think I can manage it today. So... I'll just keep it short and sweet. Like her, heh. So, Mom... I love you. I hope you and Dad are together again. And, ur... don't-don't worry about me, okay? I'll be fine.”_

 

 _He pauses and assesses the crowd. Everyone is crying in the polite way that mourners tend to, but Bucky is practically inconsolable. His eyes are puffy and swollen and his chest is heaving from trying to restrain his tears. He looks broken and Steve so much wants to put him back together again... or fall apart right with him. The brunet offers him a nod and Steve takes a deep breath._  

“ _Goodbye, Mom.”_

_He places a white orchid on the coffin, when Bucky steps forward and places a pink carnation next to it. None of the other mourners place a flower; the right is reserved for Mrs Rogers' two sons._

_Later that night, back at Bucky's apartment, Steve and Bucky sit on the sofa and cry. They don't touch, don't speak, just sob silently as the rain sleets against the window and the couple in the apartment upstairs argue with one another about their budget._

_The suit is thrown to the back of the wardrobe to collect must and rot, along with the memories that cling to its fibres._

 

_Steve never wants to see it again._

 

*

 

Bucky stares blankly at Steve, as if he can't comprehend what he's just been told.

“Terminal?” he repeats, the word sticking to his tongue.

“Yes. The, ur... the Sivapramalayse in your system's gone into remission, so your delayed aging has stopped working. You're aging twenty years every two weeks.”

Bucky tilts his head and, rather than looking angry or fearful, he just looks tired.

“He warned me,” he breathes and Steve frowns.

“What?”

“Zola. He told me that if I tried to leave them, he'd make me 'self-destruct'. I didn't understand what he meant, but I guess now I know.” He rolls his head to the side. “It's the arm, right?”

“Can we remove it?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly baulks.

“It's attached to his bone,” Doctor Patel explains. “And his veins have been looped with wires; the pump is connected to his veins, so the toxin has fully processed in his body now.”

“Besides, I wouldn't want to lose it now,” Bucky supplies. “Once was enough. I need it.”

Steve frowns and puts his hand up to touch Bucky's cheek. The brunet recoils and Steve pulls back. Doctor Patel and Bruce share a look and they quietly leave the room.

“Buck... you're being very blasé about this,” he whispers and Bucky laughs then.

It's a horrible sound. There's remnants of what it had sounded like back in the Brooklyn days but it's crackly, broken and jumpy, like a worn out recording of a favourite song.

“Steve,” he says, shaking his head. “It's about fucking time I died.”

  
And the worst part is he really, _really_ means it.

 

*

 

Every member of the Avengers comes to visit Bucky in the days prior to his release three days later. Natasha is the first to come, with Clint lingering behind her carrying a white box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

“We bring sustenance!” he cries. “Figure it's better than hospital Jell-o!”

Bucky shrinks down into his pillow and he stiffens, his eyes narrowing as he glares at Clint. Steve puts a hand on the joint of his metal arm but, whilst Bucky lets him touch him now, he doesn't apply pressure.

“That's Clint, Buck,” he explains. “He's a good guy.”

“He's with me, Vanya,” Natasha says, and her voice is gentle and saccharine, the complete opposite of normal. It's like a little girl and Steve has to remind himself that when she knew Bucky, she basically was; a ballerina on a music box, with _Vanya_ turning the key.

“Natalia?” he frowns, sitting up. “Это вы?”

“Да , Ваня,” she replies, crouching by his side and taking his flesh hand. She runs her fingers along his knuckles and he closes his eyes, visibly relaxing under her touch. Steve ignores the jealousy that streaks through him; _it means nothing_.

“He says that my name is Bucky,” the brunet frowns. “I am not Vanya.”

“No,” she whispers, and there's so much pain in her voice that the jealousy Steve felt quickly gives way to guilt. “You're not. Not any more.”

“Кто я ?” Bucky's crying now and his back is entirely to Steve. His attention is on Natasha, clutching onto her like a lifeline.

She smiles sadly and kisses where her fingers had stroked his knuckles before looking over his shoulder at Steve.

“Его.”

Bucky stiffens and he turns to look back at Steve, who is staring back at them with wide eyes. Natasha stands and kisses Bucky's forehead before walking over to Clint, who has very pointedly been ignoring the scene and is tucking in to a chocolate glaze.

“We need to go, Clint.”

“But we just got here!”

“We're going. Leave the box.”

“But baby-”

“ _Now,_ Clint.”

“Aaaww, doughnuts!” He scoffs the rest of the pudding before closing the box with more force than necessary and waves his goodbyes. He trots after Natasha, grabbing her hand and kissing her temple as Bucky watches them.

“He is in love with Natalia,” he says, a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” Steve replies. Bucky nods slowly.

“I loved her.”

“You did.”

Bucky inclines his head and his brow puckers before he turns and looks inquisitively at Steve.

“Did I love you?”

Steve's heart does a backwards flip and he swallows, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don't know,” he manages to wheeze out.

“Did you love me?” And the way he says it is so harsh, so demanding, that Steve feels inclined to answer.

“I did.”

He still does, but that's not what Bucky asked.

The brunet ducks his head contemplatively before rolling away from Steve and curling in on himself. Steve takes that as his cue and he returns to the armchair, fighting back tears as he bites into a traditional glaze.

 

*

 

Whilst he's wary of everyone who comes to visit him, Bucky maintains a sense of professionalism that must have come from years of having to be introduced to politicians intrigued in the work of Department X and the elusive Winter Soldier project 

Oddly enough, he seems to be much warmer towards Thor, who bounds in with Bruce in tow.

“Cybernetic One, I have heard tale of your prowess on the battlefield!” he booms. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance!”

“Jesus, what planet's he from?” Bucky whispers to Steve, who covers his laugh with his hand.

“Asgard!” Thor replies brightly and Bucky smirks.

“Don't think I'm familiar.”

Bruce and Steve huddle in the corner as Bucky and Thor converse with one another (well, Thor talks _at_ Bucky who listens in quiet bemusement).

“How's he taking the news?” Bruce asks, peeling one of the bananas from the fruit basket he's brought.

“He's barely mentioned it,” Steve confides, tossing an apple between his hands. “He just doesn't seem to give a shit.”

“Do you think it's a pretence?”

“I couldn't say.”

Bruce nods as he ponders this before humming to himself. Steve raises an eyebrow.

“What?"

“I'm just thinking...” Bruce shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“No, please tell me. Anything you have to say can't _not_ help.”

The scientist smiles and finishes his banana before throwing the peel expertly across the room into the trash can.

“Well, James went missing for nine months after dragging you from the water. When he arrived at the Tower, he still looked the same, right?”

“More or less.”

“Well, we don't know where he went during that time. But something tells me he was back at Department X for at least part of that time. He somehow broke away from them, and that's when they cancelled out the Sivapramalayse. He may have been planning to escape from them for all that time, but they could have thrown him into another mission. Or...”

“Or tortured him for not completing his previous mission of killing me,” Steve concludes, gritting his teeth. Bruce bites his lip.

“What I'm getting to is that it's very plausible that he's in the throes of PTSD, one of the symptoms being suicidal thoughts. The idea of death... it's tantalising to those who are suffering.” Bruce looks away and Steve slowly reaches forward to put his hand on the scientist's shoulder. It doesn't solve anything, it does enough to reassure both he and Bruce for at least a little while.

 

*

 

But it's Tony's visit that has the real impact on Bucky.

 

The billionaire shuffles into the room with thick black sunglasses covering his eyes. He's in his traditional get-up; a long sleeved shirt underneath an 'AC/DC' tee and black jeans. His posture is closed and his arms are folded protectively over his chest, covering the glowing blue circle that keeps him standing.

“Hi,” he says shortly.

Bucky blinks and gestures for Steve to lean in, whispering into his ear. Steve coughs and stands up, looking at Tony almost apologetically.

“He wants you to take your glasses off. He doesn't like not being able to see someone's eyes,” he elaborates when the philanthropist opens his mouth to interject.

Tony stares at them for an indeterminate amount of time before shrugging and removing the shades. His eyes are wide Bambi eyes, defined by the sagging purple bags underneath them. Steve's more than aware of Tony's erratic sleeping patterns, and yet he normally does such a good job at covering it up. Bucky stiffens and he clutches for Steve's bicep, almost steadying himself.

“Buck?” he frowns when Tony steps forward.

“I don't suppose you know who I am,” he says, his tone as cocksure as normal, and yet there's an undercurrent of something _weak_ in his voice. “Which, considering you've been defrosted for a while now, is kinda weird. But I digress. My name's Tony. Tony Stark.”

Bucky mouths the surname and the billionaire spits out a laugh. It's bitter and harsh, broken glass.

“Yeah, you heard me. 'Stark'. Think Howard and Maria. You know, the ones you _killed_?”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve hisses, but the playboy doesn't pay him any attention.

“Thing is, I always thought they'd died in a car crash. That's why I don't drive myself anywhere; I'm scared I'll prang my Porsche just like Daddy dearest. But of _course_ ,” he scoffs, throwing his arms up.  
“Of _course_ it turns out he didn't! And I spent all this time absolutely _hating_ my father for leaving me as a fucking orphan, leaving the weight of his company on my shoulders! And it turns out that it was _you_! Capsicle's very own dearly departed Bucky, yet another orphan! Seems like the world has a fucking hilarious sense of irony, right?  
And as if, _as if_ I don't feel guilty enough going about my life and knowing that I've been the reason people have died, and people have lost family, I've been hating my Dad for no reason too! My Dad, who's the reason your precious fucking _Steve_ is still alive. Steve, who's done nothing but try and find you and honestly, I don't know why he bothered. You're a fucking waste of space Barnes, a waste, you hear me?!”

“That's _enough_!” Steve shouts, getting to his feet. “You're done here, Stark!”

“Too fucking right!” Tony laughs, putting his glasses back on and looking them both over. “Y'know Cap, I get your angle. You're all about belief and reformation. You gave me that chance and I thank you for that, really I do. But you also said that you knew men with less than me and yet are worth twice as much. If you're talking about Barnes... well, two lots of nothing still makes nothing.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks out, slamming the door on his way out.

Steve exhales and runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head when he looks down at Bucky.

The brunet hasn't moved, but is still staring in horror at the spot where Tony had stood. His right hand is trembling and his mouth is parted in an 'o' shape, like he's about to speak but can't articulate himself adequately. Steve reaches out for him when-

“I didn't mean to.”

Steve freezes and looks at Bucky, whose eyes are shining with tears. He looks up at Steve and he's lost, a toddler who wandered off in a mall and is surrounded by big people who don't bother to look down on him.

“I didn't mean to kill them,” he repeats. “T-that was my order, that was what I had to do. I... I didn't- I couldn't-”

“It's not your fault, Buck,” he tries to soothe, but Bucky shakes him off.

“It's my fault but I didn't _mean_ it to be. I'm a murderer, Steve,” he gasps. “I killed _innocent people_. I ruined Tony's life... countless others, too.”

Bucky begins to rock, forward and backwards as his heart-rate monitor begins to beep faster. His hands are fisted in his hair and his breath is coming in thick, heavy pants. Steve swallows.

“I'm gonna go get the nurse,” he mumbles, heading for the door.

“ _DON'T!_ ” Bucky roars, reaching for the nearest item (a vase of flowers that Steve had brought along) and throwing it at Steve with sheer force. The blond narrowly dodges to the left as the crystal shatters beside his head. Purple hyacinths, primroses, acacia blossom and a single acorn explode into confetti and spatter the floor like ink blots.

 

Steve gapes at Bucky, his own cheeks wet with tears, when he bends down to pick up a hyacinth. He slowly approaches Bucky, his free hand open to reveal his palm, before leaning over and tucking the flower behind the brunet's ear. Bucky grabs his hand and stares at him, his eyes sharp.

He could easily break Steve's hand right now and he'd be more than willing to let him 

Eventually, the brunet releases him and rolls over onto his side once more, the flower still in his hair.

Steve goes to pick up the remaining flowers and vase shards before dumping them into the bin and walking out. He closes the door quietly before sinking to his knees and letting the tears fall.

 

*

 

“ _Have you ever been sailing?"_  

_Steve raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Bucky. The brunet is toeing the water at Coney Island, smiling contentedly to himself. Steve shakes his head._

“ _Ain't much opportunity for that round here,” he smirks and Bucky punches him in the arm. It hurts but he doesn't say anything._

“ _Shut it, Punk! But I'm serious, I'd love to do it one day.”_

“ _Why's that?” Steve asks curiously and Bucky shrugs._

“ _Dunno. I just like the vastness of the ocean, you know? How it doesn't have an end, it goes on for eternity. No one can tell you what to do out there.” He pauses reflectively. “You know, we could get a boat. A little sailing one. We'd get on it and go out there and explore the ocean, fishing and sunning. Then, after we'd got bored'a that, we'd find some tiny little island and live out our days there, eating coconuts and stuff.”_

“ _Neither of us know how to operate a boat!” Steve protests, although the idea is a tempting one._

“ _I'm talking in the hypothetical, here,” he snorts, but he wistfully gazes out into the horizon like he's peering into a crystal ball. “I dunno Steve, I just feel like that's where I'm meant to be. In the water.”_

“ _And what if we drown?”_

“ _Jesus, are you always this pessimistic?!” Bucky grumbles. “Steve, if we drowned then there's nothing we could do about it. I just wanna think about the two of us. Together at the end of the Earth.”_

“ _At the end of the line?” Steve asks hopefully, echoing Bucky's words from after the funeral almost a year ago._

_Bucky smiles and wraps an arm around him, the sensation sending lightning bolts through Steve's body and making him feel like a live wire._

“ _Yeah, Stevie; at the end of the line.”_

 

*

 

Steve's allowed to take Bucky out of ER two days after the incident. Tony doesn't say anything about the assassin being moved into the Tower, just locks himself in his lab with only Pepper and Bruce allowed to enter.

Bucky is in Steve's apartment, on the fourth floor. He'd chosen it for the view; that, and after his various experiences falling/plunging from tall constructions, he's decided that he shouldn't risk vertigo any more than he already does.

“I'm afraid I only have a double bed,” he says. “But I can sleep on the sofa if you want.”

“Why would you do that?” Bucky frowns.

“Because I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

“You'll be uncomfortable on the sofa,” he counters. “Look, Steve... I-I think I remember something.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, suddenly hopeful. “What?”

“It's only fragments,” Bucky admits. “Like puzzle pieces. But I'm seeing a shabby room... splintering floorboards... and we're in a sleeping bag together. We're splitting the heat and... there's only one dirty pillow, but we're sharing it. You're... you're really small.”

He runs his eyes over Steve and his brow creases.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he mumbles and Steve shakes his head.

“No, no, Buck. You're perfectly right. Back in the 40s, in Brooklyn, we used to sleep together.”

Bucky's eyebrows shoot up and the tips of his ears turn red; he's embarrassed.

“You mean... like... _sleep together_?”

Steve almost laughs, but he doesn't.

“No, actual sleeping.”

“Ah...” Bucky ponders this. “I'm glad you said that.”

“Oh.” Steve's hurt and he makes no attempt to disguise this fact. Bucky, however, feels the need to justify himself.

“I don't mean I wouldn't want to! It's just, you said you don't know if I loved you. And it wouldn't have been right. To sleep with you if I didn't love you.”

“I guess.”

“I'm surprised, though,” he adds.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Because I feel like... I feel like maybe I did love you,” he says. “And I should have liked to have held you.”

“I would have let you,” Steve replies, throat dry.

“Because you loved me,” Bucky clarifies and Steve smiles softly, nodding.

“Yeah, Buck. Because I loved you.”

The assassin licks his lips and looks to the sofa.

“I'll sleep there.”

Steve doesn't try to argue.

 

*

 

Whilst only a week has passed, the physical effects on Bucky are evident. His hair is thick with grey and, whilst physically he's still capable, there's a stiffness about his joints that mean he needs a cane to move around. The physiologist says it's down to the stress on his muscles he'd placed in his younger life 

“Or maybe it's because I fell off a train into a ravine,” he replies dryly and Steve snorts with laughter.

“Please, we've all been thrown through a building or two,” Clint scoffs from where he's sat on the counter of the communal kitchen, buffing his nails. “You're nothing special.”

Steve shoots him a look but Bucky just holds his metal arm up.

“I have an _actual_ metal arm,” he counters.

“Whoopdi-fucking-doo,” Tony (who has briefly left his lab to grab provisions) huffs. “I have an entire fucking suit.”

Before Bucky can reply, he's gone again. Clint rolls his eyes and continues to shape his nails. The physiologist returns to rubbing Bucky's muscles down when Sam enters the room.

“Hey guys,” he smiles, looking warily at Bucky before going over to Clint's side and kissing his cheek. “Bird Babe.”

 

*

  
Before anyone has time to process what happens, Bucky's knocked Clint off the table and is trying to pummel him to death.

 

*

 

“Bucky, what are you _doing_?!” Steve yells, grabbing at the assassin's shoulders and trying to pull him off. Bucky just throws his head back and knocks Steve away. Clint, for all his fighting prowess, isn't strong enough to move Bucky off of him, so he just kicks his legs and fights dirty, spitting and biting at Bucky who's struggling to put his metal hand through the archer's face 

Suddenly, in a flash of red, Natasha has her thighs around her former tutor's neck and yanks him back, the move startling him to the point of plasticity. She pins him under her hips and holds his arms above his head in a position that, Steve can't help noticing, they are both evidently familiar with.

“Что ты делаешь?!” she snaps and Bucky glares contemptuously at Clint.

“This ублюдок is cheating on you with that man!” he exclaims, gesturing to Sam, who is dabbing Clint's split lip with a wet rag. The archer turns to glare at him.

“I'll have you know that I can speak Russian, Вы вырождаться кусок дерьма,” he snaps. Bucky snarls and Natasha shakes her head.

“Vanya – _James_ \- that's not how it is,” she says. “Clint is with me _and_ Sam.”

The way Bucky's eyes widen is almost comical.

“Wha-? How does that... but... I don't understand,” he says hopelessly.

“It's called polyamory,” she explains. “We're all three of us in a relationship with each other.”

“So... he _wasn't_ cheating on you?"

“No.”

“Oh...” Bucky swallows and frowns, as if he's trying to understand quantum physics or some such thing. “And you're all allowed to go out? Together?”

“Guys can kiss guys!” Clint snorts and Bucky actually shoots him such a dry glare that Steve laughs.

“I've done more than that,” he deadpans and Sam cackles.

“People judge sometimes,” Nat replies. “The world has changed a lot in many ways, James. But in other ways it's very much the same.”

“And these two... they love you?”

“Yes,” the pair say in synch, their eyes staring so intently at the red-headed goddess that the brunet seems convinced.

“Okay...” He looks at Nat and nods. “Okay. I'm... glad to hear that. And, Natalia?”

“Yes, James?”

“Please... call me Bucky.” She grins and kisses his cheek.

“If you call me 'Nat'.”

She then saunters over to the two men, slinging one arm around each of them and leading them to the sofa to watch _New Girl_ reruns. Bucky watches them with a morbid sort of fascination. Steve tilts his head and leans in.

“You alright, Buck?” he murmurs and the brunet hums.

“Yeah... it's just that it's kind of strange, to see how they can all share their love so easily.” He looks at Steve. “I mean, I can remember being at a bar with you after... well. This brunette girl came in in a red dress and I can just remember she only had eyes for you and you for her and... well, I didn't like it all that much.”

“Buck...?”

“I'm just saying, it was weird. You loved me but you loved her, too. I can't wrap my head around it.”

He looks away and, if Steve didn't know any better, he'd say the brunet looks _heartbroken_. He goes to touch Bucky's shoulder when the soldier pulls away.

“I, ah... I think it's best if I go sit down. Take a nap or whatever it is us old people do.”

He offers a half-hearted grin and limps away. Steve runs a hand down his face and sighs before heading to the sofa, trying to drown out his thoughts with TV.

 

*

 

Steve stares at the ceiling. There's a crack spanning across it from the bottom left corner to the top right. It breaks off into several thinner veins, forming an intricate map to nowhere in particular.

From the sofa, he can hear Bucky breathing steadily. It's a relatively peaceful night, compared to some of the others that have been. Sometimes the brunet coughs in his sleep, the sheer ferocity of the action making his body arch and flip right onto the floor. Other times he'll sit up and scream, sweat pouring and tears streaming as he claws at the door and tries to hide. Usually, he just cries.

Those nights are the worst.

As Steve feels himself slipping into his thoughts and, with that, an altogether other realm of existence, he feels the mattress beside him dent. He sits up and Bucky is sat on the edge. He's wearing a pair of pyjamas borrowed from Steve. When he'd first tried them on, they'd fit him perfectly. Now they were already hanging off of his rapidly thinning frame. His hair is tied into a bun, as he sweats a lot in his sleep and doesn't like to have the mop of hair stuck to his forehead.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve whispers, a question he finds himself asking a lot lately.

“Do you have a sleeping bag?”

The question throws Steve slightly, who looks at Bucky like he's dreaming. The brunet, in turn, turns to face Steve. His eyes glimmer from the thin streams of moonlight that seep through the blinds and stroke down his face like fingers.

“No, I don't,” he says carefully. “Why?”

“I... I wanted to do what we did back in Brooklyn.”

Steve licks his lips and sits up, heart hammering.

“You mean, sleep together?”

“It was a stupid idea,” the ex-assassin murmurs. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

“You didn't,” Steve says quickly before pulling the duvet beside him back. “You can always sleep in the bed with me... if you want?”

Bucky looks at the offered place warily before nodding and climbing in. He and Steve sit side-by-side primly, their hands above the duvet like good little boys and their gazes fixed anywhere but at each other. Steve goes back to staring up at the crack and he finds himself sliding down the mattress and further into the covers. He's hardly aware when Bucky snuggles down beside him and shuffles in a bit closer.

“That ceiling's going to come down on us,” he whispers and Steve shakes his head.

“No, it's just the plastering. I'll tell Tony to get it fixed.”

“The ceilings always broke in Brooklyn,” Bucky murmurs. “There was that huge hole in the bathroom from where upstairs constantly broke the pipes.”

“And the dry rot,” Steve replies.

“And the hard floorboards. In our sleeping bag.” Bucky pauses. “I don't like sleeping on the mattress. It's like... like...”

“Sleeping on a marshmallow?” Steve suggests and smiles slightly as he can feel Bucky nodding vigorously beside him. “Give me a second.”

Steve heaves himself onto his feet and slowly removes the duvet, as Bucky curls up into a ball to retain heat. Steve goes to the sofa and moves the coffee table before pressing the opposite sofa against it to form a box shape. He then slings the duvet over the cushions and pads over to the airing cupboard. He goes back and forth retrieving blankets which, with no small effort, he drapes across the backs of the sofas to form a ceiling. He then grabs his flashlight and walks over to Bucky.

He holds his hand out and, gingerly, Bucky takes it. The pair walk over to the structure and climb inside, as Steve flicks the flashlight on and wraps it in an orange pillow case to give the space a warm, fire-like glow.

Bucky gapes around him at the cocoon Steve had made, eyes wide and wondering.

“This is... did you make a-”

“A blanket fort,” Steve smiles. “You used to love making these, even as an adult.”

“They kept you warm,” Bucky replies. “And they felt safe.”

“Yeah.”

With a yawn, Steve reclines onto his back and puts his arms behind his head.

“Goodnight, Buck.”

He closes his eyes when no response comes and can feel sleep pulling him in. However, right as he reaches the cusp of unconsciousness, he feels something pulling him back to reality. There's a weight on his left chest and, when he cracks an eye open, he sees Bucky using him as a pillow. The soldier's bionic arm is draped across Steve's abdomen and, whilst it should feel cold to the touch, it's oddly warm. Steve pulls Bucky closer and, in a lapse of judgement or an admission of his feelings, kisses the brunet's hair.

Whether or not Bucky is awake to appreciate it, he doesn't know.

Steve falls asleep with Bucky at his side.

 

*

 

Bucky pisses himself on Christmas Eve.

 

*

 

The Avengers are sat in the common room, each of them in their festive pyjamas and going about their duties, everyone doing something to contribute to the festivities. Thor is sat on the floor stringing popcorn onto a wire, occasionally sneaking a handful of the snack into his mouth when he thinks no one is watching. Natasha is in the kitchen with Bruce, the both of them pondering over a cook book and debating what they should make for the dinner tomorrow. Tony is coordinating the lights to go up at exactly midnight (Stark Tower is famous for its Christmas light display) as Pepper instructs him on what colours to use; he wants red and gold, whereas she argues in favour of blue and silver. The both of them know she'll win, but this has become as much a tradition in their coupling as leaving out cookies for Santa. Steve is hanging stockings up as Bucky watches from the couch, a complacent smile on his face as he fiddles with the zip of his onesie.

Clint and Sam are stood at the foot of the ridiculously tall Christmas tree, the archer sticking a golden star on the end of an arrow and aiming at the top.

“I got this,” he says, poking his tongue out the corner of his mouth.

“Babe, I don't think you can make that,” Sam replies dubiously and Clint just waves him off, releasing the arrow and sending it shooting up to the top. The arrow misses by a hair and hits the wall, before rebounding and hurtling into the tree. It knocks into a glass bauble, which slips from its branch and tumbles to the floor before shattering into snowflakes.

The Tower echoes with Bucky's scream.

All eyes fall on him as Steve flocks to the brunet's side, who is trembling and clutching at his hair like the sky's fallen down on top of him.

“Buck?”

The brunet doesn't reply as Steve becomes acutely aware of a dank, musty smell that always seems to linger in alleys. He looks down. There's a dark patch around Bucky's crotch and down his leg.

“Oh Buck,” he whispers, eyes shining, before slowly reaching out to touch the soldier's elbow. “It's me Bucky, it's Steve. You're safe. Clint dropped a bauble. No one is going to hurt you. You're safe, you're here and you're safe.”

“Steve?” he hiccups, looking desperately at the blond.

“Yeah Bucky, it's me. Is it okay if I take you to get washed up?” he asks and the brunet nods, shakily getting to his feet and allowing Steve to guide him out the room.

“Oh God,” Pepper whispers, hand over her mouth as the group watches the pair exit.

Clint looks down at the bow and arrow in his hand before placing them on the floor and climbing up into the rafters, burying his head in his knees. Sam knows better than to pursue him, and goes to help Thor.

 

*

 

Steve runs the bath as Bucky sits on the toilet seat, completely naked and staring down at the floor with a glazed expression and a down-turned mouth. His body is like a deflated balloon, once so solid and magnificent to behold, but now weak and loose. His faint chest hair is almost white, and Steve doesn't look any lower than that. The flesh around where the metal arm meets his shoulder is angry and inflamed, raised like Braille, holding out for someone to caress it. His shoulders are slumped and there's an air of hopelessness about him. Even back in Brooklyn, when food was scarce and morale was low, Bucky managed to smile 

But now...

Steve tests the water before turning the taps off and holding his hand out for Bucky to take. The brunet does so and allows himself to be guided to the tub. He sits down in the tepid water and continues to stare ahead as Steve gets a sponge and dips it in the water, absorbing some of the liquid before squeezing it out and rubbing Bucky's back in circular motions.

“I used to do this to you,” Bucky says quietly, still not looking up.

“You did,” Steve confirms. “When I'd recovered from a flu, you'd clean me up.”

“I used to look after you. You didn't like it.”

“It's not that I didn't like it,” Steve says slowly. “Rather, I didn't like being a burden on you.”

“Like I am now.”

“You're not a burden, Buck.”

“ _Steve,_ ” the brunet says emphatically and Steve doesn't say anything more.

He hands Bucky the soap and he dutifully cleans his genitals and thighs by himself, removing any trace of urine. Once the brunet is satisfied he's cleaned himself fully, he stands up and Steve wraps him in a fluffy white towel before bringing him a pair of clean pyjamas.

“Do you want to come back to the common room?” he asks as Bucky scrapes his hair back into a bun.

The soldier mulls the offer over before mutely nodding and holding his hand out. Steve, only mildly surprised, takes it and walks at Bucky's side down the winding corridor to the common room.

The group, having finished preparations, have made hot chocolate and are sat watching shit Christmas films that they all know by heart (plus, the subtitles are on, so as to make it easier for Clint). No one makes a big fuss of the supersoldiers' return, although Thor scoots up so that Bucky can sit next to him. The brunet wedges himself between the god and Steve. He looks tiny.

Clint, who is lying on the floor with Nat and Sam, looks over his shoulder at the brunet and swallows. They meet eyes and Clint slowly raises his hands. He forms a sign, a perfectly simple one that Steve recognises as **I'm sorry**. Bucky, whilst not understanding ASL, is intuitive enough to know what it means, and offers a weak smile and a thumbs up. Clint nods back and returns his attentions to the screen, his head resting on Sam's back and Nat's head on his stomach. Bucky breathes a contented sigh and leans his head against Steve's shoulder.

 

They're still holding hands.

 

*

 

Christmas morning is a rather lavish one by all accounts.

Clint wakes everyone up at 4:45AM, clapping his hands and singing carols as loudly as he possibly can. Steve jolts awake as he hears Clint screech and fleeting footsteps rush past his apartment door. These are soon followed by someone in hot pursuit.

“ _Nat, I'm sorry, don't kill me!”_

_“It's not even five, you scrotum!”_

Steve chuckles and rubs his eyes before wearily looking down. Bucky naturally shifted in the night so his head is now on Steve's tummy. There's a slight pool of dried drool on his shirt, but the blond doesn't mind. He absently strokes the greying roots of Bucky's hair as the brunet groans. He blearily opens his eyes, thick with sleep.

“Steve?”

“Merry Christmas, Buck,” he smiles. The brunet looks around the blanket fort, which has subdued all light.

“What time is it?”

“I'm not 100% sure but I'm pretty certain it's not even 5AM.”

Bucky groans and flops his face down into the crook of Steve's neck.

“Can't we sleep a bit longer? I'm an old man. I need my rest.”

“See, that's not true,” Steve smiles. “I'm old and I'm normally awake by 5 o'clock anyway.”

“I'm a year shy of fifty physically,” Bucky retorts. “I have an excuse.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond before closing it again and shaking his head.

“If you don't get up, you won't get any presents.”

That catches Bucky's attention.

 

*

 

The pair of them pad into the common room, where the Avengers, Pepper, Sam, Coulson, Hill, and Fury are all sat. Every single one of them are in their pyjamas (even Fury, who is wearing a black silk two-piece. There's a hint of festive cheer in that his eye-patch is lined with silver tinsel) and are swapping presents around excitedly 

“I like this Pagan ritual!” Thor booms, making grabby hand motions for a present. “Another!”

“Patience, Iago,” Tony drawls, handing him a silver and red box (all of the presents are colour coordinated for their respective hero) before grabbing his own. “Ooh Pep, Versace! You shouldn't have!”

“Mornin', Cap!” Sam smiles as Steve and Bucky approach the circle and lower themselves to the floor. “Bucky.”

“Hey,” they both reply as Clint hands them both a box.

“These are from the three of us,” he explains, giving Steve an American flag-patterned box and Bucky a silver box with red stars. “Nat chose them, ultimately, although I had a really good idea!”

Sam and Nat exchange conspiring glances that clearly say that Clint did _not_ have a good idea.

Steve opens his first to see a cardboard box completely filled with records. There's an assortment spanning across all decades, some sleeves tattered and chewed in the corners whilst others remain in their plastic packaging.

“Every team member contributed their favourite artist,” Natasha explains as Steve removes a Depeche Mode record and scans the back. “That's Coulson.”

“Thank you so much,” Steve says sincerely, grinning at the trio and reaching over to hug them each individually. He then turns expectantly to Bucky, who's holding the present precariously in both hands, as if it's a bomb waiting to go off. “Open it, Buck.”

“You'll like it,” Nat assures him and the brunet nods, wordlessly pulling at the ribbon and removing the lid.

His eyes widen and his mouth parts as he removes a thick leather-bound diary. Engraved in the cover is the sentence: 'До конца линии'. He licks his lips and opens it. Each page is blank and the thick, luxurious paper that no doubt French aristocrats wrote on back in the 1700s. It was lavish and obviously extremely expensive.

“I... I don't know what to say,” he whispers.

“'Thanks' might be a good place to start,” Clint smirks and Bucky nods.

“Thank you. So much.” He carefully puts it back in its box and ducks his head by way of thanks.

Presents get passed and squealed over respectively. Clint is positively thrilled by his practical joke kit (Thor, who had employed the help of Darcy for all his purchases), Bruce is calmly reading through his ultimate guide to yoga (Coulson, who had studied the practise in Tibet), and Pepper is more than a little bemused as she stares down at the certificate naming her the owner of a small island near Madagascar (Tony, duh).

Bucky is surprised when their host roughly shoves a box in his hand. He frowns at Tony, who is watching him with a stony face and pursed lips. Adam's apple bobbing, Bucky opens it. Inside is a set of blueprints.

“I drew up some improvements for your arm,” Tony explains. “I noticed that you keep rubbing it and, seeing as you're getting weaker by the day, I figured you'd want something a bit more practical for you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbles and the billionaire shrugs it off, before heading over to show Thor the mechanics of a Rubix cube.

“You still haven't gotten my present yet,” Steve murmurs in the brunet's ear.

He rummages in his pocket and removes a velvet box, placing it in Bucky's flesh hand. The brunet's eyes widen and he gapes at Steve, not quite understanding what's going. Steve just smiles and, wordlessly, Bucky opens it.

Resting on the silken cushion is a thin silver dog tag, with 'Captain Steve Rogers' and his number carved into the metal.

“I remember it was good luck to swap dog tags,” he explained. “I wore yours and you wore mine when we went on missions. We didn't wear each other's the day you fell, and... I wanted to make sure something like that doesn't happen again. So this is yours. The original dog tag.”

Bucky's eyes fill with tears as he looks from Steve to the tag.

“I... I don't know where mine is,” he says.

“I got one made for me to wear with all your details on it, too,” he explains before holding his hand out. “May I?”

Bucky lifts his hair up as Steve places the necklace round his neck and does up the clasp. The cool metal kisses his burning skin and Steve traces the chain with his thumb before moving back and smiling at Bucky gently.

“Thank you,” Bucky mouths before handing Steve a spherical-shaped present. “You might want to be careful with this one.”

An eyebrow raised, Steve takes the present and unwraps it. As the paper falls to the ground, Steve is greeted by a miniature landscape of Brooklyn, caught up in a glitter blizzard.

“You've got all these knick-knacks around your room,” the brunet shrugs. “I thought you'd like to add to your collection.”

Steve tilts the crystal ball to the side and watches as Downtown gets covered in sparkles, reminiscent of mid-winter in the City.

“Bucky,” he croaks, tongue too large for his mouth. “I love it.”

“Good,” the brunet smiles and Steve leans forward and embraces him.

 

*

 

It's Bucky's idea to visit Peggy.

 

He prepositions it on the day after Christmas, his eyes downcast and wringing his hands. His hair is coming close to being the colour of the slush on the sides of the roads, a dirty grey with brown mangled in. He's not allowed anyone to cut it, so it's still long and passes his shoulders now. 

“I... I just think it would be good for me to see her,” he mumbles, not daring to meet Steve's gaze. “She's the brunette I remembered earlier on... I know that now. And I know what she meant to you. I mean, she was such a big part of your life, and I... I need to talk to her. Please.”

“Buck... she's not who she was before,” Steve says carefully. “She's got dementia, she hardly remembers anything any more.”

“For all we know, that'll be me soon,” Bucky says matter-of-factly. “I want to thank her whilst I still remember I have to.”

Steve examines Bucky carefully, licking his lips before nodding resolutely.

“Okay Buck. We'll go.”

And that's how Steve finds himself standing in the waiting room of the Sister Marling Care Home for the Elderly, with Bucky hunched in a chair beside him, his eyes flickering from each old person that shuffles past and coughs in his direction. He huddles closer to Steve, who just wrapped his arm round his shoulder and pulled him even closer still.

Just then, a young man walks up to them, his eyes bright with the glimmer of his future; he doesn't anticipate that he will most likely be doing this job ten, twenty years down the line, and helping his elders will eventually become tiresome and make him sick.

“Hey, Mr Rogers,” he grins and Steve nods wearily.

“Ben.”

“You here to see Peggy?”

“Yeah. I brought a friend with me, if that's alright.”

Ben runs his eyes over Bucky quickly, who glares back at him.

“A friend of Peggy's?”

“More of mine, really.”

Ben's eyebrow raises but he nods and offers yet another ridiculously perky smile.

“Okay, Mr Rogers. Well, you know where to go!”

Steve nods again and stands up, taking Bucky's hand and guiding him along. He has to walk slowly, so that Bucky can follow him at an easy pace. He looks highly uncomfortable in this place, and it comes as no surprise; he is fast becoming one of the old people who will need caring sooner rather than later.

They stop once they reach Peggy's room and Steve turns to face Bucky.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

The ex-assassin swallows and looks from left to right, evaluating the exits. But, finally, he nods and gestures for Steve to open the door. He does so and they enter.

 

Peggy is in the bed – where else would she be? - with her head propped up on a stack of pillows so that she's facing the door. Her silver hair is fanned out around her head and there's a book in her arthritic hands. She's peering at the pages through cat-eye glasses, and her brow is puckered in extreme concentration. It comes as no surprise that it's Tolstoy. She looks up, however, when she realises she has company. Her eyes soften and her mouth curls up in a smile of recognition; she's lucid.

“Steve,” she breathes, putting the book down and removing her glasses as Steve approaches her bedside.

“Hiya, Peggy,” he smiles, crouching down to kiss her knuckles. Her smile deepens when her eyes turn to the doorway, where Bucky is still rooted firmly to the spot.

“Who's this?”

Steve takes a deep breath.

“Peggy... this is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.”

“Barnes,” she whispers and the man salutes.

“Ma'am.”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” she says before beckoning him over. “You look different.”

“Bucky was taken by Hydra,” Steve says lowly, his stomach knotting as her brow furrows. “They found him at the bottom of the ravine and primed him to be the Winter Soldier. They gave him a metal arm, but put the modern equivalent of a cyanide pill behind a false tooth in it. It stops his delayed aging and-”

“And now time's catching up with him.” She shakes her head and turns to look at Bucky. “Welcome to the club, Barnes. Can't say the membership rates are very good."

Bucky smiles at the joke, but there's little humour in either of them.

“I wanted to thank you, ma'am.”

“Whatever for?” Peggy frowns.

“For looking after Steve,” he says, eyes flicking to Steve. She follows his gaze and smiles.

“Oh Barnes, I didn't do anything.”

“You did. After I... after I fell, you looked after him. I saw the display at the Smithsonian. I know what an effect you had on him... saw it first hand.”

Peggy regards him for a moment before gesturing for Steve to leave the room. He does so, and she doesn't speak until the door is firmly closed.

“Then you saw the section dedicated entirely to you,” she replies. “Barnes, if you don't think you were important-”

“But he loved you.”

“Don't interrupt me, Barnes,” she says, wartime authority slipping through. “I didn't do anything for Steve that you wouldn't have done had the roles been reversed. I cared for him, yes, because I loved him. And I know the feeling was mutual.”

“There you have it.”

“But you cared for him, too,” she continues. “He told me everything about you. How you'd fight alongside him in alleyways in Brooklyn. I saw how you used your sharpshooting abilities to save him on the battlefield. He stormed enemy lines to bring you back.”

“Yeah, I know. And I saw that's where you met your husband? Did I... did I know him?”

Peggy smiles and gestures to the photos on her bedside table. There are all sorts; plenty of her children in various stages of their lives, a framed portrait of Steve, a group shot of her and the Howling Commandos (who Bucky remembers, he remembers!) and, lastly, a picture of Peggy dressed in an ornate white dress cutting a wedding cake with -

“Dugan?” Bucky laughs incredulously. “You married Dum Dum?”

“Seems I have a weakness for American army men with a tendency to put themselves in deathly situations,” she drawls sardonically, although there's a sweetness about the way she says it that reveals how she really felt about her husband. “He died about four years ago. Lung cancer.”

“I'm so sorry,” Bucky says, and he means it. As he stares at the grinning face of his comrade in the wedding photo, he remembers how the red-head would drink and play blackjack with him. When Bucky was taken by Hydra the first time, Dum Dum fought tooth and nail to try and get him.

“Don't be, it's nothing any of us could control,” Peggy replies, wiping a tear from her right eye absently. “I haven't seen any of the Commandos since the reunion after Steve was defrosted about two years ago."

“Well, I'm here, if that's any consolation,” he tries to joke, but the brunette nods sagely.

“It is,” she says seriously. “Barnes, Steve loves you. He always has. I mean, he clearly has a type, too.”

“Ma'am?”

“Brunets who're good with a gun and can whip him into shape.”

“Please, you can't control Steve. He's a hurricane in an hourglass.”

“And your time is fast running out,” she says. “So please, _please_ Barnes; don't waste a single minute of it.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something when the door opens and Steve peers round, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Peg? Is it alright to come in?”

“Of course,” she says brightly. “You're taking me for our dance date, yes?”

Steve inhales sharply as Bucky looks at him inquisitively. Peggy turns to Bucky and frowns.

“Do I know you? You look awfully familiar...”

 

*

 

“ _So you enlisted?”_

_Bucky scratches the back of his head, rocking on his heels as he tries to come up with a comprehensive lie. He hadn't enlisted so much as been drafted, but he doesn't want Steve to look at him and think he's a coward (which he most certainly is, but that's entirely besides the point)._

“ _Sure did,” he replies with a cocksure grin, tilting his head and offering a sloppy salute. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, at your service!”_

_Steve snorts and shakes his head, his mouth curled upwards slightly but his eyes hard with an edge of something that makes Bucky feel a little guilty._

“ _That easy, huh? Your first try.” He laughs incredulously. “You know how many times I've tried?”_

“ _I've got a scrapbook of your rejection letters,” Bucky replies and, whilst it's harsh, it's what Steve needs; he can't possibly go to war, he'd – he'd..._

“ _Buck, I_ am _proud of you,” Steve says decidedly. “But you've gotta understand, I wanna be by your side out there! People are laying down their lives, and now that includes you-”_

“ _Is this a competition or something?” Bucky interjects, suddenly irked. “Like, a test of patriotism for you? Because if you want my place, Steve, take it!”_

“ _Buck-"_

“ _No, if you're so desperate to get killed then why the fuck should I try and stop you?!”_

“ _This hasn't got anything to do with getting killed, what are you talking about?” And now Steve's mad, his nostrils are flared and his hands are clenched into tiny fists. “Why do you gotta coddle me all the time?! I'm not some baby, Bucky!”_

“ _Of course you're not, but you're not well! You will never be able to fight, Steve, and that ain't a bad thing!”_

“ _But I wanna fight! I wanna make a change, I wanna-”_

“ _You wanna prove yourself beyond an alleyway.” Bucky scoffs and shakes his head, running his hand down his face. “You're the dumbest smart kid I know Rogers, you know that?”_

“ _I thought you'd support me in everything I do,” Steve says quietly. “But I guess that's not true, is it?”_

“ _If it involves you dying? Fuck no, I will never support that. I'd sooner die before you.”_

“ _Well, looks like that might be the case,” Steve whispers. “Are you happy?”_

_He turns on his heel and leaves the room before Bucky can respond. The brunet watches him go before sinking to the floor, burying his head in his hands, and screaming. Because now, there's nothing else he can do._

 

*

“You were wrong, you know.”

 

Steve briefly looks away from the road to the passenger seat, where Bucky's staring dead ahead. His face is soft, contemplative.

“About what?” Steve asks, changing the gear (he only ever used manual cars; automatics had never been an option, as far as he was concerned. Old fashioned habits die hard).

“About Peggy,” Bucky replies thoughtfully. “She's still the same. She's just... old. But she'll always be Agent Carter.”

“I guess so,” Steve replies slowly.

They continue in silence for a while, with nothing but a song to unite them. Then, Bucky looks out the corner of his eye to the blond.

“She married Dum Dum, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve replies, nodding. He'd looked through one of the many family photo albums she'd saved.

“And that doesn't make you mad?”

“Why would it?”

“You loved her.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head, still not looking away from the road but his hand reaches out to take Bucky's. He lets him.

“Buck, part of loving someone is allowing them the dignity of their choice. That's something Peggy taught me.” His face adopts a wistful expression and he smiles emptily. “She moved on to someone who could make her happy. Who could move mountains for her.”

“And you couldn't?”

“I had... a heavy heart, Bucky. Kinda like an iron ball, you know? Peggy tried to lift it and she threw her back out. That's not to say she didn't try, but I was so weighed down by my own hurt that I wasn't willing to help her. Not then. Now, I know how lucky I was. How lucky I still am. But I could never love her wholly, in the way she deserved. And that's why I'm happy she married Dum Dum. Because he was strong enough to lift her own iron ball.”

Bucky seems to appreciate the answer, as his thumb trails along Steve's knuckles.

“And now? Do you still have that iron ball?”

Steve contemplates this for a moment.

“I think I'm sharing the weight now.” He looks to Bucky and smiles. The brunet returns it before he looks ahead at a road sign.

“Think we can go visit the Commandos?"

“Sure Buck, sure.”

 

*

 

The graveyard is well kept and tidy, with each tombstone lined up like granite soldiers. There are three graves in their plot so far, each one shining with fresh flowers placed before them.

 

_Montgomery Falsworth_

_Jim Morita_

_Timothy 'Dum Dum' Dugan_

 

Bucky stands there, his arms folded over his chest and his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of trying to restrain his sobs. Steve stands beside him, back straight and arms behind his back; he's learnt to control the emotions, at this point. 

“Y'know, Dum Dum hated it when we cried,” Bucky says weakly. “He said it was better to laugh through the pain... made it easier to move on, I guess. He laughed a lot when we were in the Hydra base.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. He takes a deep breath to try and steady himself.

“When I die... bury me here, would you?” Bucky asks.

“Buck-”

“Please.”

Steve stares at him before nodding, stomaching curling.

“Of course, Bucky. I promise.”

Bucky nods before straightening his back and saluting, clicking his heels together. Steve mirrors him as Bucky lets out a single laugh.

“Wa-hoo.”

Steve, too, laughs when he hears the familiar war cry and nods, tears streaming as he tries so damned hard to keep laughing.

“Wa-hoo.”

 

*

 

Bucky needs a frame by the time he's sixty.

 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he mumbles as he looks at the polished metal item. “I shouldn't need this. 

“But you do, so complaining isn't going to help,” Steve snaps.

He's absolutely tired. Bucky is waking up increasingly earlier in the night. His nightmares seem to only have gotten worse and he's wet the bed at least twice. Steve's debated asking him if he wants to wear incontinence pads to bed, but he doesn't know if that'd be more of an indignity to him that allowing him to piss himself.

“What's your problem?” Bucky frowns, pulling his cardigan tighter round himself.

“Nothing, I just...” Steve sighs and rubs his eyes. “I'm just tired, Buck. I haven't slept well this past week.”

“Ah.” Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and stares at the floor before looking up. “I could always sleep in a different apartment.”

“What? No Buck, don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not. You're not sleeping and that's not beneficial to anyone. I may be in retirement, but you're not. You're technically on call all the time, and if you're even the slightest bit tired, you could get killed. I don't want that, Steve.”

“But you need me,” Steve says helplessly.

“Sure. But I need you alive above all else.”

“I-”

“This isn't up for debate, Steve,” Bucky says firmly. “I'm going to speak to Tony and get my own room.”

And that hurts Steve more than any bullet could.

 

*

 

It's Clint's idea to go to Coney Island.

 

“C'mon, it'll be fun!” he whines, bouncing from foot to foot. “They've got all these cool _rides_ and _stalls_.”

“Babe, it's January,” Sam explains. “I doubt it'll be open.”

“Coulson could pull some strings!” the archer argues.

“It's freezing out,” Bruce responds. “James will get cold.”

“Don't hold back on my account,” Bucky says from where he sits on the sofa in Steve's arms. “I was the _Winter_ Soldier. I can handle myself.”

“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asks, looking down at the now completely-grey Bucky.

“Steve, do you know how cold Russia is? I'm _certain._ ”

“Well... alright then,” Steve shrugs and Clint pumps his fist in the air.

“Fuck yeah!”

 

*

 

Steve had visited Coney Island only twice after being defrosted. In some respects it is completely different. In others it is very much the same. 

Steve opted to push Bucky around in a wheelchair, so that they had maximum mobility. Tony offered him one with rocket-boosters, but Fury demanded they use a manual one. Sometimes Natasha would push him, sometimes Sam, at one point even Thor (although he got a little too eager and nearly ended up launching both himself and Bucky into the water).

Bucky watches quite contentedly as the Avengers all go on the assorted rides. Bruce sits with him as the others go on the Cyclone, a ride which Bucky remembers with fondness.

“You know, last time Steve went on that, he threw up,” he says to the scientist, who is biting into some cotton candy happily.

“I think he's a bit tougher now,” Bruce smiles and Bucky nods.

“You'd hope so.”

The scientist swallows before lowering the stick.

“James, I have a personal question for you. You don't have to answer.”

“Okay.”

“Have you made any... any plans? For what you want to happen at your funeral?”

Bucky's eyes widen as Bruce looks away quickly. He can't say he has; aside from knowing he wants to be buried with the Commandos, he's not thought of anything.

“Well, I... no,” he says and Bruce nods.

“I was just thinking, maybe you should think about it. That is, if it doesn't upset you.”

“I'd resigned myself to my fate a long time ago, Bruce,” he says kindly and the scientist nods.

“Okay. If you want to tell me, I can get it all arranged for you now. Something tells me that you don't want this responsibility to go to Steve.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly before relaxing again. “No. Last funeral we went to was his Ma's. It wrecked him. I... no, I don't think he needs to go through that again.”

“Okay.” Bruce removes a pen and notepad from his satchel, primed for Bucky to give him orders. It's entirely professional, a fact which Bucky appreciates.

“I want to be buried in my uniform,” he says. “From when I first shipped out. I heard something about the Smithsonian having it, it shouldn't be too hard to get. I'd like it to be a Catholic ceremony.”

“You're religious?” Bruce asks, only mildly surprised.

“I was back in the Brooklyn days. Lost my faith back at War. The Russian Orthodox Church was a big thing and, although Department X wasn't religious, it did good to mingle with the religious types as they still have a large influence on the people. Still, I figure now is the best time to be making peace with The Lord if He's up there. And... it will be good for Steve.”

“Do you want the service in Brooklyn?”

“Please. But if you can, I'd like specific music played at the funeral. One old song and one new one.”

“Okay... any thoughts on what you'd like?”

Bucky smiles slyly.

“One or two.”

Bruce chuckles slightly as he writes the rest of Bucky's requests down before putting the stationary back and looking back to the Cyclone. It's hard to make out any one particular person, but Thor's winter cape is trailing behind their cart like a battle flag and Clint's screech can be heard from a mile off.

Bucky smiles before coughing roughly. Bruce rubs his back in circular motions and only raises an eyebrow when Bucky's mitten comes back dappled in blood.

“Please don't tell Steve,” he whispers hoarsely and Bruce nods, removing his own and handing them to Bucky to wear. He hides the bloodied glove in his satchel and goes back to eating his cotton candy when the group approach them again.

“That was _awesome_!” Clint cries from where he's sat on Natasha's back.

“T'was a noble steed, indeed!” Thor bellows, turning to grin at the carts.

“Feel sick?” Bucky asks cheekily and Steve scoffs, although he does look a little green around the gills.

“Shut up. Hey, Buck?” he asks, suddenly shy.

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna come on the B&B Carousel?”

Bucky smiles and frees the brake of his chair.

“Last one there's a rotten egg!”

 

*

 

They all walk down the boardwalk as the sun sets. It goes down a lot quicker, due to it still being winter, but the street lights are bright enough that they can stay out for a bit longer (and besides, they're superheroes; who's going to mug them?).

Nat, Sam, and Clint are taking the lead, walking along and holding hands. Natasha's in the middle and insists on occasionally halting so that the two men have to swing her like a pendulum. It's entirely juvenile and completely adorable.

Tony and Pepper are strolling along arm in arm, the former leaning in to the strawberry-blonde and whispering something into her ear that makes her giggle and snort uncontrollably.

Thor has already raced to the end of the boardwalk and is waving excitedly at the boats, as if they could see him.

Bruce is walking on his own, so deep in his own world that no one dares disturb him.

That leaves Bucky and Steve at the back, the latter pushing Bucky along contentedly. The grey-haired man is swaddled in a thick woollen blanket, along with wearing a ushanka hat and a thick black trench-coat Clint had 'borrowed' from Fury. Steve stops by the side of the water and turns Bucky to look out at the bay. They stand there, their breath curling into mist, when Bucky hums.

“Remember the sailing boat?”

Steve frowns as he sifts through his memory for the particular one Bucky's thinking of. When it comes to him, he nods.

“Oh yeah. The island, right?”

“Yep. You know, I always thought we'd do it.” He sighs and leans his head back into Steve's firm stomach. “Guess that'll never happen, now.”

“We could always do it? If you want, we could.”

Bucky shakes his head.

“Not now, it's too late. Besides, I need to be here for all my check-ups and things. You need to be here to save the world.”

“You're more important to me than anything else,” Steve says aggressively, but Bucky just smiles at him like he's a child throwing a tantrum.

“We both know that's not true,” he replies. “Humanity comes first.”

“I don't wanna lose you Buck,” Steve whimpers suddenly, and the tears fall fast and heavy, like a floodgate's been opened.

Bucky gasps before pushing himself up (with great difficulty, it should be added) and turning himself so that he can embrace Steve. He's tiny against the blond's frame, and he feels so thin. The fact makes Steve cry more, which only makes Bucky hold him tighter.

“You're not gonna lose me,” he whispers. “I won't ever leave you Steve, to the end of the line, I won't leave you.”

“I love you,” he sobs, clutching Bucky tight, like a lifeline. “I love you Buck, I love you.”

“I know, Stevie. I know.”

On the horizon, a lighthouse flashes at a random point out to sea. Neither of them notice.

 

*

 

There are three weeks left before Bucky is expected to die. With each tick of the clock, the atmosphere around the Tower gets tenser and tenser 

Bucky has a nurse now – Catalina 'Cat' Vasquez – who looks after him at night when Steve can't.

The blanket fort still stands, but it feels empty without Bucky. Bucky, who doesn't want to see much of Steve any more.

Steve knows he shouldn't take it to heart. As Bucky deteriorates, he doesn't want Steve to see that. He knows, he understands. But still, the idea that in the other room his best friend is rotting, with a stranger for company, makes him sick.

“I just want to take care of him,” he says to Natasha one night.

They're sat in the apartment she shares with Clint and Sam (who has made his apartment back in the city a halfway house for LGBT kids that have been thrown out on the streets). The two men are going about the kitchen, making a gigantic batch of pasta and discussing a documentary on birds that they watched the day before. Natasha and Steve are in the living room, a random soap playing on mute in the background.

“I understand that,” she says. “But is anyone taking care of you?”

“Nat, twenty years of my life were spent having other people take care of me,” he replies dryly. “I don't want to spend the next however many repeating the same thing.”

“There's a difference between making sure you have your inhaler and making sure you're not spiralling into depression,” she counters. “How many panic attacks have you had in the past couple of weeks? And be honest.”

Steve ducks his head.

“A few,” he mumbles and she nods, although there is no triumph in the action.

“Exactly. Steve, contrary to what our job description says, you don't have to be a hero all the time. You're entitled to care about yourself sometimes, you know.”

“But I-”

“You can talk to Sam, you know,” she continues. “He's a licensed therapist. He can help you.”

“I don't like to air my dirty laundry,” he says.

“We're your _friends_ ,” she emphasises. “Not only have we seen your dirty laundry, we're willing to lend you detergent.”

“Urm...”

“It's not my best metaphor, shut up,” she huffs. “But seriously, Steve. Don't be afraid to look after yourself. No one will judge you.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak when Clint explodes into the room, carrying two bowls of pasta in each hand with another bowl balancing on his head. Sam trails behind him, carrying another bowl and a plate of garlic bread.

“Rub-a-dub-dub, let's eat some grub!” the archer cries, slamming the bowls down in front of Steve and Nat before flopping down onto his split beanbag and turning to look at the TV. “Urgh, change the channel!”

“Would you believe his last caffeine fix was this morning?” Sam sighs, sitting next to Nat and kissing her cheek before going in for the garlic bread.

Steve smiles and tries to focus on the positives; he has good friends, good food, and a not-so-good-but-still-appreciated movie on the television.

He just doesn't have Bucky.

 

*

 

Bucky is nearing eighty.

 

He and Steve don't talk much nowadays. Bucky doesn't leave his room, be it through an incapability to walk or a reluctance to face Steve, no one's certain. He requires a wheelchair just to get anywhere now and he has a tendency to piss himself, as he cannot reach the bathroom in time. Cat's taken to carrying a jug everywhere now, just in case. 

Steve frequently asks her for updates. Her answers are vague but not, it seems, because she wants to be. They come across as orders.

“Is he alright?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers.”

“Catalina, you can call me Steve.”

“I'd rather not if it's all the same, Captain Rogers.”

“Please, can I see Bucky? I need to make sure he's okay.”

“I can assure you he's perfectly fine, Captain Rogers. Agent Coulson hired me on high recommendation.”

Cat's tough. She's smart as a whippet, with wide intelligent eyes that assess Steve like he's a potential threat. He holds her in great respect and appreciates that she's just doing her job, but right now he wants her to move the _fuck_ away.

“Cat,” he says through gritted teeth. “You don't understand. I _need_ to see him.”

“I understand perfectly well, Captain Rogers,” she replies crisply. “My Papá was the same age as James is now. He was dying from cancer of the liver. They had to give him injections, radiotherapy, all sorts of things. He shit himself regularly, shook, ended up a weeping mess at the end of every day.  
  
My Papá was a good man. He served in Vietnam, yet only on the terms of conscientious objection; he ran communications and never killed another man. And, whilst I know you were a serviceman yourself, I don't think you can appreciate how meagre the veteran's pension plan is.  
  
We couldn't afford to pay for his medical bills. I dropped out of college to try and help. He ended up refusing his medication in the end and died a month later. I wanted to become a nurse but I'm still paying off his debts. I cannot afford college. Being here, I can still help people. And helping them is giving them what they need. James needs space.  
  
Please understand, Captain Rogers, that my Papá experienced such indignity in his final days. His refusal of his drugs, his _death_ , was his choice. We had to allow him that. And James... he doesn't want you to see him this way. He doesn't want that indignity. So please, respect his decision.”

“Allow him the dignity of his choice,” Steve murmurs, swallowing as he folds his arms over his chest. “I'm sorry, Cat. I didn't realise. I'll let you get back to work.”

He turns on his heels and begins to walk away when the young woman called after him.

“Captain!”

Steve turns and raises an eyebrow. Her hands are behind her back and she looks young, uncertain.

“He talks about you in his sleep,” she says. “ _É_ _l te ama_ , I think. So... don't give up on him, okay?”

Steve blinks and nods, his throat dry and his heart clenched into a fist.

“I never have.”

 

*

 

The last time Steve sees Bucky is on yet another ordinary night.

 

Catalina has gone home, so Steve's camped outside of Bucky's apartment, forcing himself to stay awake so that he can attend to him in the night if needs be. Then, from inside, a voice.

“Steve? I know you're out there.”

He freezes, like a young child caught trying to open his Christmas presents. The voice inside is croaky and weak – nothing like Bucky's voice – and Steve barely recognises it. He keeps quiet.

“You can come in.”

Steve immediately gets to his feet and opens the door. As soon as he does, he wishes he hadn't.

The room is dank and musty from where the windows haven't been opened in some time. It's dark and Steve can barely make anything out. On the freshly made bed is a small, gnarled figure. It's curled in on itself like a shrimp, facing the door as it quivers and twitches. Grey hair fans across the pillow like a halo around the shrunken head, which is now lined with wrinkles and creases. Liverspots and varicose veins adorn the flapping skin that remains exposed from the half-nude body. If it weren't for the bionic arm (which maintains its muscularity and protrudes from the skeletal body like a tumour) and the familiar silver of the yellowing eyes, Steve wouldn't recognise the person as Bucky. 

“Hey there, Stevie,” he says, his thin mouth curling upwards as he peers up from his place.

“Hi,” the blond whispers back, rooted to the spot.

Bucky grunts and manages to lift his arm up to pull the duvet back, opening a spot.

“Room for one more,” he offers and Steve accepts the offer gratefully.

He climbs in besides the wrinkled body and Bucky automatically flips himself so that Steve can spoon him. He does so and it feels so right and so wrong simultaneously; he knows he's holding Bucky, but it doesn't feel like him at all.

“There's a crack across the ceiling,” the old man mutters.

Steve looks up. So there is.

“Whole ceiling's going to come down,” Bucky continues and Steve's mouth quirks upwards almost involuntarily.

“Just like Brooklyn,” he replies. Bucky hums.

“You know, a lot of memories about that place have come back to me in the time I've been in here,” he croaks. “I can remember pretty much everything now.”

“And?”

“And it's rather tragic,” he says after a moment. “Peggy can't remember anything, so I figure it'll be easier for her to leave it all behind. But me... I've had my eyes opened again only to be told they'll be closing in no time. Seems that now I'm not ready to go, I have to.”

“Why didn't you wanna see me, Buck?” Steve whispers, hurt.

Bucky sighs and shakes his head.

“I didn't want you to remember me like this. You should remember me for who I was. That young, beautiful thing who danced the Lindy Hop and could keep up with you.”

“Bucky, I'll never think any less of you,” he murmurs against the man's hair. “I'll love you no matter what.”

“Aching joints, aching soul and all?” he smiles before breaking out into a hacking cough. Steve rubs his back, only to gasp in horror at the blood trickling from the corner of Bucky's mouth. “Oh yeah... that's been happening for a while.”

“Oh, Buck,” he whispers, and now Steve's crying. Bucky twists in his arms and looks at him, eyes even bigger in the rapidly-exposed sockets.

“Hey, don't cry,” he says, wiping them away with an arthritic finger. “Please, Steve. You've gotta laugh, remember? Gotta laugh.”

“I can't, this isn't funny,” Steve sobs.

“No, it's not,” Bucky replies grimly. “But it's happening and there's nothing either of us can do.”

“I don't know what I'll do without you,” Steve says.

“Survive,” Bucky replies. “You're strong, Rogers. You've done it before and no doubt you'll do it again. Keep living for me.”

Steve nods and they remain like that for a while when Bucky smirks suddenly. Steve frowns at him and the silver-haired man inclines his head.

“Look under the bed.”

Steve does so and he, too, laughs. He reaches his hand out to retrieve a thick roll of fabric.

“Is this a-?”

“What do you say, Stevie?” Bucky smiles. “Fancy building a blanket fort and sharing a sleeping bag one last time?”

So Steve dutifully builds the fort, Bucky propped up on the pillows, watching him. Once it's done, Steve approaches the bed and scoops him up into his arms, carrying him across the thresh-hold of their cotton castle and tucking him into the sleeping bag before clambering in himself.

Bucky sighs contentedly and leans into the heat of Steve's chest.

“You're so warm,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “Like a heater.”

“I'll keep you warm, Buck,” he replies.

“Don't let me go, Steve,” Bucky whispers, voice thick with sleep and an emotion that Steve cannot possibly place.

“I won't ever let you go.”

“Good.” Bucky smiles and exhales, bringing his knees to his chest and his face to the sky. Steve just pulls him tighter and watches him until he can't stay awake any more.

 

*

 

“ _Don't worry Stevie, I'm right here.”_

_“What if you fall off the side? What if you drop me?”_

“ _I ain't gonna fall, Steve. And I won't ever let you go.”_

“ _Promise?”_

“ _Promise.”_

 

*

 

Bucky Barnes is dead. Steve Rogers won't stop laughing.

 

*

 

Three months have passed. The world has kept turning, the traffic jams get increasingly longer, and Steve has bought a boat.

 

*

 

Bucky's funeral had been a nice one. There were only a handful of people there, including the Avengers et al, Catalina, and the remaining Commandos. Peggy couldn't make it due to her condition worsening, but Steve didn't mind; she didn't need to see this 

Bucky was buried in his 40s uniform, true to form. It swamped his petite frame, but in Steve's eyes he looked just as wonderful as he had back at the Science Fair all that time ago. Tucked under his collar was Steve's dog tag, the cool metal now a part of him forever.

Steve had almost laughed at the two songs played; _Young At Heart_ by Frank Sinatra and some Depeche Mode song that he recognised from the record he'd gotten at Christmas.

Bucky's tombstone was exactly where Steve had promised and, at the point of burial, the blossom on the cherry tree next to it had just started to grow. From time to time, pink confetti would drop down on the marble and shower the Commandos. Steve visited every day, keeping each gravestone clean and shining.

Bucky's apartment had been cleaned out and redecorated, per Steve's request.

“Are you sure, Cap?” Tony asked, frowning at the preposition.

“It's no good for him now,” Steve replied, very matter-of-factly.

The billionaire, who understood all too well, simply nodded and patted Steve's shoulder before ringing an interior designer.

 

Everyone keeps asking Steve how he's doing and he always replies; “Better than yesterday.”

“Do you wanna talk?” Sam asks on an almost hourly basis.

“No thank you,” Steve says each time.

He's not... fine. Not by any means. His heart has been shredded and scattered to the wind but, in an almost morbid way, he's used to the sensation. He's lost Bucky three times and, whilst each time has hurt worse than the last, he has adapted. He's coped. He's _survived_.

 

*

 

The decision to get the boat comes when Catalina comes to visit him. 

She's doing good now. After Bucky's funeral, Steve made sure to donate a substantial amount of money to her family (all anonymously, of course). It was enough to wipe out her father's medical debt and for her to get through her first semester at college. She still doesn't know it was him, but he suspects she has an inkling.

“ _Hola_ , Captain Rogers,” she says, offering him a small smile.

He looks up from his paperwork and returns it, wearily rubbing his eyes. He's started doing less and less avenging, restricting himself more to the administrative side of superhero work these days.

“Hello, Cat,” he replies. “How have you been?”

“Good, _gracias_. I'm practically top of my class,” she grins and Steve smiles a little wider.

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“And how are you?” she asks, voice deep with concern.

He shrugs and taps his pen on the side of his desk.

“Better than yesterday.”

She nods and sits down in the chair opposite him.

“I see.” She pauses before rummaging through her purse. “I'm afraid my visit isn't purely recreational, Captain. The both of us are very busy and besides, I am here for a purpose.”

“Oh?” Steve replies, a little bemused by the sudden pragmatism.

Cat hums and removes the journal Bucky had received at Christmas from her bag, presenting it to him with little pomp.

“I was under strict instructions not to give this to you until James' passing,” she says quietly. “He said he wrote in it after you all went to Coney Island.”

“It's from Bucky?” Steve asks, breath hitching in his throat.

“Yes,” she replies before standing and ducking her head. “It was lovely to see you again, Captain Rogers.”

“And you, Catalina,” he says sincerely, standing to kiss her cheek. “And thank you.”

She nods once and turns.

“Goodbye.”

He waits until she closes the door to open to the first page.

There's a letter there, written in a scrawl that, whilst untidy, is instantly recognisable as Bucky's. It's almost like a spider has dipped its feet in ink and scrambled across the page in its haste. He smiles and begins to read.

 

*

 

_Steve,_

_I wrote this letter because I figured it was important that I give you one last thing, something to remember me by... something recent. Something positive._

_I still can't remember the Brooklyn days. There are always fragments, brief flashes of what are like firecrackers in the back of my mind. As quickly as they appear they're gone, yet somehow there's always a consistency; you._

_I'm sure that you know better than anyone that, when you're frozen, your brain still works. Extended lengths of time stuck with nothing but your own thoughts and your guilt... it eats you up._

_But whenever the dark got too overwhelming there was always a glimmer of light. A golden spotlight. And it was you._

_I never knew who it was – there was never a name I could put to the frail figure curled up in the recesses of my shadows – but I always felt a sense of profound comfort, of an emotion that had been carved out of my heart and the name of which was lost to me._

_I know it now._

_It was – IS – love._

_I love you, Steve. I love you so much it wholly consumes my being. With every beat of my heart, heave of my lungs, I love you. Something tells me I've always loved you. I loved you when we were orphans sharing a sleeping bag and scrounging for dimes down the side of the sofa. I loved you when we were Howling Commandos, storming Hydra bases and smoking cigars we'd found in crates, more for the victory than the taste. I loved you as I plunged into the ravine, I loved you as I froze, I loved you as I was reborn and reprogrammed to be heartless._

_You are my heart, Steve, my lifeblood. They couldn't rid me of you. I thought nothing could._

_But now we both know that's not true._

_When you told me I was terminal, I couldn't wait to die. I figured it was about time. Sinners must repent and all that jazz. But after that time in the blanket fort, I realised I wasn't ready._

_Neither of us are immortal, Steve. I think the both of us know that. But unfortunately, darling, your time is longer than mine._

_I don't know if you will miss me. I hope you do but I want you to move on. To thrive, to make your long life a good one._

_I'll be in the dark again soon, and with any luck I won't see you for a good long while. But on the day I do and the spotlight pierces the veil once more, I will never let you go._

_You are my meaning, Steve. You GAVE me meaning. And I will always be thankful of that._

_Take care of yourself, Punk._

_Yours eternally,_

_Bucky_

 

_*_

 

Steve reads over the words several times over, branding them on his brain and committing them to his heart. When he's done, he holds it to his left chest and bends his head. Tears are welling behind his eyes, and a laugh is bubbling deep within his stomach, amongst a turmoil of panic and loss.

However, nothing comes out.

With a deep breath, he heads to his wardrobe and begins to pack. He throws his shirts, jeans, and underwear into a duffel bag, along with his sketchbook, some novel that Nat had leant him, his toothbrush. The suit he wore to Bucky's funeral remains in the back. 

He then approaches his bedside table and picks up the snow globe Bucky had given him. He tilts it and watches contemplatively as the snow descends on Brooklyn, dancing like fairies through the liquid air. He smiles and puts it in the bag gently. He adds a few other things – photos, one or two medals, the journal – and zips up the bag. His hand ghosts over Bucky's dog tags, which still hang over his heart like they've always belonged. He heads to the door before halting and turning to look at the room.

He puts the bag on the floor and returns to the wardrobe, before removing his Captain America uniform. He turns off the lights, picks up the bag, and closes the door.

 

*

 

The Avengers wake up the next morning to find the Captain America suit in the communal living area and a note. Bruce picks it up and reads it aloud.

“'I'm sorry that I'm not here to say goodbye in person. Please don't hate me for it. Fact of the matter is, I need to get away. There are too many ghosts here, and I'm in no fit state to serve anyone when I can't serve myself. And, as someone once told me, I don't have to be a hero all of the time.'”

“What dumbass told him that?!” Tony shouts, glaring around the room at everyone there.

“I did,” Natasha snaps from where she's folded up on the sofa. “And I'd tell him again, too!”

“Well, now what are we supposed to do?” Clint huffs. “We don't have Captain America!”

“He mentions that next,” Bruce informs them quietly.

“Continue, Green one!” Thor exclaims and Bruce does so.

“'However, I understand that the Avengers need Captain America. That's what the suit's for. Sam, I want you to take over for me. Show the world what justice really is.'”

All eyes turn to Sam, who is gaping at Bruce like he'd just told him the meaning of life. He looks to the suit, which is laid across Natasha's lap, and shakes his head.

“I... I don't know if I can do that,” he stammers.

“He's asked you to,” Tony says pointedly. “It'd be rude of you not to.”

“But I-”

“Hey,” Nat says softly, getting up and curling her arms round Sam's waist. “You can do it. Steve believes in you. We all do.”

“Exactly. Plus,” Clint adds, picking the suit up and admiring it appreciatively. “Your ass is gonna look _amazing_ in this!”

“Keep going,” Tony demands impatiently.

“'I don't know when I'll be back. Quite truthfully, I don't even know where I'm going. All I know is, I need to get away. Thank you all so much for everything you've done for me and Bucky. I can't even begin to say how much I love you all and how much I owe you. My last request of you all is that you look after Peggy for me and you visit Bucky and the Commandos whenever you can. I'd hate for their graves to be neglected because of my bout of selfishness'.”

“Oh, Steve,” Natasha whispers, making no attempt to disguise her tears now.

“'Please keep me in your thoughts and have faith that maybe we'll all see each other again someday soon. Family sticks together, after all. Again, thank you all. Good luck. Sincerely, Captain Rogers.'”

The room is silent as Bruce folds the letter. Wordlessly, Tony gets to his feet and walks out the room. Nat buries herself against Sam, who is rubbing circles on her back as Clint sits by their feet and leans his head against her thigh. Everyone else remains in mute silence, unable to vocalise their emotion.

Just as the Howling Commandos had almost a century before, they have lost their Captain.

 

*

 

In the middle of one of the various oceans, in a little boat named _Peggy_ , a man with sun-bleached hair and a pair of dog-tags is sat with a fishing pole, whistling a tune about a star spangled man with a plan.

The sky is hyper-blue, without a single cloud to intervene with its beauty. There had been a storm two days previous, and at one point it seemed as if the boat would capsize, yet the sailor had managed to wrangle _Peggy_ back on course and now there's nothing but sunshine.

As the rod bends under the pressure of a catch, the blond grunts and reels it in. An exotic creature of neon yellow and electric blue flops at the end of the line, saucer eyes glazed and already shrivelling in the heat. The sailor brings it in and kills it swiftly, apologising as he does so. Since his abandoning the main lands five months previous, he's had to sacrifice processed foods in favour of what nature provides (granted he still has one or two cans of Spam or creamed leeks in his hamper, but he prefers to save them for special occasions). His radio crackles easily in the background, the device picking up signal despite being miles away from any form of civilisation (Coulson had done his best to provide him with any useful items he might need after being informed of his intentions).

 _New York's very own crime fighting heroes, the Avengers, have once again saved the day. Led by the new face of America, Sam Wilson, the superheroes single-handedly brought down an intergalactic threat that could have brought about the end of the world as we know it_.

The sailor's ears prick up with interest; being where he is, he'd not seen anything suggesting an imminent alien invasion.

_Whilst the details of the operation are restricted, onlookers are saying that this daring display is just the thing the team needed to prove themselves to the public yet again in the wake of the departure of their former leader, Steve Rogers._

His name sounds foreign to him now, and a pang of guilt immediately strikes him.

_The Mayor of New York says that the operation 'was an act of true heroism, one that Captain Rogers would have been immensely proud of'. Seems the decision to bring in Captain Wilson was certainly a good one. One thing's for definite; you don't see feats like this in Gotham!_

The sailor zones out as his thoughts meander to his team. He thinks about them often, yet never with the commitment they're due. Rather, memories come in fleeting reminders:

A pair of birds once flew overhead and he found himself thinking of Clint and Sam.

As lightning struck the sea and concocted a tempest, his thoughts were dominated with images of a hammer-wielding Thor.

An iron hook was Tony.

The novel leant to him by Natasha has been reread so many times he can recite all of the first three chapters by heart.

In the nights where he finds himself breathing a little too hard and a little too fast, he recalls the yoga positions taught to him by Bruce.

But all of these people – these wonderful, kind, brilliant people that he had had the good fortune to call his family – became mere shadows in contrast to the all-encompassing memory of _him._

 

Bucky hadn't been wrong when he'd said that, even if he was gone, he would never _be_ gone. He's with him every step of the way. He's the bend of the fishing rod, the vibrations in his throat as he sings, the increase of his heart-rate when the nights are dark and the loneliness is all consuming 

He's committed every word in the journal to memory. There were still so many pages left blank, but those that had been filled seemed to hold recounts of Bucky's last days.

_I've stopped Steve from seeing me altogether. There's blood in my phlegm and I can hardly move any more. I'm disgusting, he can't see me like this. I've let him down, I've hurt him so badly._

_I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die._

_I shit myself today. Steve's outside my door. I hope he can't hear me crying. I should get Catalina to chase him away._

_I NEED STEVE._

It went on like that for a long time, until Steve came to the last entry.

_I can feel the end coming now. I'm going to be selfish; I'm going to let him in. I need to say goodbye..._

 

The sailor is shaken out of his stupor by a sudden friction, a jolt. He lurches forward, smacking his head on the hard wood of the cabin with a meaty thud. 

“Ow,” he deadpans, leaning back and rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand.

He cranes his head over the edge of the boat, thinking maybe he'd hit a turtle or some such thing when his eyes meet with a curve of gold.

Sand.

Eyes widening, the sailor reaches his hand out and grazes his fingertips over the calloused surface. It undoubtedly is sand, fine and silky through his fingers. He laughs incredulously and practically falls out of the boat, his cheek pressed against the warmth. Looking up, he's greeted with emerald trees and rainbow birds, chirruping merrily. For a moment, the sailor fears he's hallucinating, that he's finally succumbed to his hysteria and has fallen to madness. But when his foot digs into a particularly sharp shell and the sharp pain shoots through his spine, he knows that this is real.

He laughs louder now, tears streaming down his cheeks as his sunburnt face turns up to the cyan sky, arms wide and chest heaving.

“ _We made it, Buck_!” he yells, voice rough and choked. “ _We made it_!”

He continues to yell at the sky, almost anticipating a voice to holler back.

_'Course we made it punk, we're the Brooklyn Boys! Forever!_

“We made it,” the sailor murmurs, his hand curling over a ghost's.

The sun continues to shine as the waves lap the shore and Steve Rogers finally sleeps, a smile on his face as the image of two smiling boys with yellow and brown hair building sandcastles etches itself behind his eyelids.

 

*

 

“ _I just wanna think about the two of us. Together at the end of the Earth.”_

“ _At the end of the line?”_

“ _Yeah, Stevie; at the end of the line.”_

 

*

 


End file.
